


sit back, enjoy the ride

by krakens



Category: Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakens/pseuds/krakens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have the lead trainer from the Raptor project here,” Zara says, much in the same tone she might offer up a latte that she knows isn’t what Claire ordered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sit back, enjoy the ride

She gets the phone call on the hottest day of the year.

As if the weather isn’t bad enough (eighty nine degrees, sweltering and humid, angry gray storm clouds looming on the horizon but no storm), now she has to deal with this. The Board of Directors at Masrani Global is calling to tell her that the Raptor project is overbudget – which is true, but it isn’t the park’s _biggest_ money sink by a long shot. Still, the Board wouldn’t be the Board if they weren’t haranguing her about something.

So, after spending all of ten minutes on the phone with Mr. Masrani (which never does anything for her nerves, because their conversations always go like this: “ _Claire! Stop worrying so much. The money will come from somewhere_ ” followed by no practical solutions and no checks cut) she texts Zara and asks her to get someone from the Raptor project into her office post-haste.

Forty minutes and six more infuriatingly nonproductive phone calls later, Zara pokes her head into Claire’s office.

“I have the lead trainer here,” Zara says, much in the same tone she might offer up a latte that she knows isn’t what Claire ordered. Claire gestures them in anyway, since she’s tired of politicking with the Board and this man Zara brought can’t possibly be as bad.

As she stands to greet him, she feels her skin stick to the leather of her desk chair. She wipes her palms on the light linen of her skirts, smoothes down her hair, and puts on a smile. “I don’t think we’ve officially met,” she says as he comes in, leaning across her desk. She braces her weight on one hand while she offers him the other to shake. “I’m Claire Dearing.”

“Owen Grady,” he replies, taking her hand. His handshake is borderline confrontational, but Claire gives as good as she gets, and she didn’t make it this far up the corporate ladder with weak wrists. “I’m, uh—”

“I know who you are,” she says with a thin smile as they sit down.

“So my reputation precedes me.” It’s definitely a _line_ (Claire’s heard her fair share) and he says it while swinging his chair from side to side, feet planted on the ground in front of him. She thinks she’s got his number, then. It’s not exactly a difficult puzzle. Good-looking, attention seeking, overly confident. The type who resents authority. Hard to work with, probably.

“You could say that,” she agrees as Zara hands her a portfolio. She flips through it idly to give Zara time to exit the room before she continues, glancing up at him as she speaks. “So, Owen – may I call you Owen?”

“I think you have to,” he says, tone a little flippant. She lets a short sigh out through her nose. Check on anti-authoritarian. Mr. Masrani is really insistent on this – that everyone call each other by their given names (except for him, but that’s neither here nor there). He says it fosters a sense of community, of closeness. For the most part, Claire doesn’t mind it, but some names feel more foreign on her tongue than others.

Owen catches her exasperation and chuckles under his breath, and she moves on.

“So, Owen,” she says again, folding her arms over the folio pages as she leans forward. “How are your Raptors doing?”

He narrows his eyes, and she mentally amends her assessment of him. He’s perceptive. “Good,” he says, drawing the word out like she was baiting him into saying something dangerous.

“I understand you’re making progress with them,” she says.

“Some days are better than others,” he says.

“Don’t shortchange yourself,” she says. “You’ve been making leaps and bounds since we signed you on. This is the first clutch that’s reached maturity without incident.”

“You mean without murdering each other,” he says. She bites the inside of her cheek and looks down at the papers on her desk. “Look, I know you didn’t call me in just to pat me on the back,” he continues. “What are we really doing here, Claire?”

No use in pulling punches, she thinks. “Masrani would like to move the project in a more commercial direction.”

“No,” he says immediately, sitting back in his chair. “They’re not ready for that.”

“I know,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be next week. It doesn’t even have to be next month. We’re just looking for some forward momentum.”

“Why now? I’ve been out there every day for a year and this is the first time I’ve ever heard anything about it,” he says.

Claire grits her teeth, because of course the answer to _why now_ is Indominus Rex, which the Board has been hailing as The Thing That Will Save Us for months now. And with that attraction facing setbacks, they’re scrambling to find the next best thing already available. “The Raptor project was always earmarked as asset development,” she says instead. “This can’t come as a complete surprise.”

“Maybe not, but it’s kind of a rude awakening.”

“I’m not sure how I could be gentler,” she says. He laughs, breaking eye contact with her to look at one of her bookshelves – the one where she keeps her diplomas and other commendations. “All the details are up for negotiation.”

“It’s off the table,” he says. “I’m saying no.”

“That’s not one of your options,” she says.

“My Raptors aren’t a park attraction and you’re not my boss.”

“I _am_ your boss, actually.” She’s getting irritated. She knows it, he knows it, and she’s got to get herself in check. Losing her temper is _so_ not like her, especially during a business negotiation, but there’s something about him that got right under her skin the second he walked in. “Because while it may not be an attraction – _yet_ – you work on park property, with park property.”

“So if I _live_ on park property, does that make you my landlord? Because I’ve been having some problems with the water pressure and—”

“Owen,” she says quietly and sternly, and he swallows whatever he was about to say. She likes the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down under her scrutiny. “As far as you’re concerned I’m your judge, jury, and executioner.”

A dead silent tension passes between them for a moment as he holds her gaze – and then he laughs. Not just a chuckle like before, but full-blown laughter. She’s caught off guard for a second, and then cracks a smile for reasons she can’t quite pin down. For now she’ll blame it on the weather. The heat would be enough to drive anyone crazy.

“Too melodramatic?” she asks once his laughter dies down.

“No, it was good,” he assures her, composing himself. “I’m not trying to make your life difficult, I swear. It’s just not going to work out.”

“I appreciate your concerns,” she says. “But the Board is insisting. It’s been a year, you’re not turning a profit, and you’re overbudget.”

“The Board can shove their profit margins up their—”

“You have to give me something to work with,” she says, just leveling with him. He thinks about it for a second.

Then, at length, he concedes. “Why don’t you come down to visit us tomorrow and see for yourself?”

* * *

The storm finally rolls in that night, bombarding the island with a six hour torrent of rain that leaves everything bright and green the next morning. It also leaves the terrain one giant mud slick.

By the time Claire arrives at the Raptor pen the sun has dried the turf out a little bit, but not enough that her patent leather heels don’t squelch with every step she takes towards the paddock. Owen’s pretty sure he’s about to see her wipe out and ruin her cream colored trench coat at any second (they have a no-running, closed-toe-shoes policy out here for a reason), but his concern’s for nothing.

“Good morning,” she greets as she reaches the bottom of the staircase. He wonders briefly if the flush that rises to her cheeks is just from the heat and ultimately decides that to think it was because of anything else would be far too optimistic.

“Watch your step,” he says, offering her a hand. But she stops only to scrape the bottom of her shoes against the first step (underneath the muck, the soles are bright red) and then ascends ahead of him.

“So,” she says as she reaches the catwalks, surveying the paddock beneath her. “What have you got to show me?”

The Raptors are nowhere to be seen – lurking somewhere in the underbrush. Figures they’d get shy when he needs them to perform. He joins Claire on the catwalks before ushering her back to the safety of the platforms that run along the outside of the enclosure, slightly lower down than the top of the paddock and much harder to fall over the edge of.

“Stay down here,” he says, guiding her to stand next to Barry, the handlers, and the ACU guy that’s required to be there – this week, a sour-tempered Canadian guy named Lee.

“All right,” she says. If she’s irritated at being shepherded around she’s being a good sport about it.

“Please keep your hands and legs inside the ride at all times, etcetera,” he continues.

“Funny,” she says, plainly unamused.

“I’m serious,” he says. “If you fall down there you’d be dead before this guy could do anything about it.”

She gives Lee an appraising look as she responds. “Then he must not be very good at his job,” she says, and Owen can practically _see_ the guy bristle. “Are you stalling for time?” she asks.

“No,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. The Raptors know what time feeding time is, so they’re definitely up to something. And isn’t that just what he needs – his pack of deadly, prehistoric predators going through a rebellious teen phase.

“I don’t have all day,” she reminds him.

“Course,” he says. “Go let the pig out,” he tells the handlers. They glance at each other, both reticent and unhelpful ( _teenagers_ , Owen thinks with a roll of his eyes) and eventually the boy caves and heads down the stairs.

For a few seconds after the pig’s released Owen is worried the Raptors are going to stay wherever they’re holed up – but chasing live bait is their favorite game, one he knew they wouldn’t be able to resist, and they’re after the squealing pig as soon as it’s on the ground.

Raptors are like cats in that they like to play with their food before they eat it, and watching them hunt is a thrill ride that even Claire isn’t immune to. Even if she was trying to seem diffident before, she’s rapt now, her lips hanging open in a silent _oh_ as she watches.

He has to tear his gaze away from Claire’s mouth to focus on the Raptors, and he’s almost too late. When he keys back in, Blue’s got her foot on the piglet’s head, and though her gaze comes up when he whistles at her he can tell she’s zeroed in on the kill.

“Blue,” he says in a warning tone. “Drop it.” The Raptor doesn’t move. “I said _drop it_.”

Slowly, without breaking eye contact with him, Blue extends her sickle claw until it’s pressed against flesh. “Hey,” Owen snaps.

At the same time, still with a downright _defiant_ look in her eye, Blue’s claws latch into the pig’s skull and she snaps its neck. The other Raptors screech their approval before scattering to leave Blue to her first pickings.

“That’s the fourth one this week,” the girl handler says. She’s a little too soft-hearted for the job in Owen’s opinion.

“She’s giving you attitude,” Barry comments.

“Well,” Owen says, turning his attention back to Claire, who is scribbling notes on her tablet computer. “She wouldn’t be Blue if she wasn’t giving me attitude. What are you writing?”

“That’s not your concern,” Claire says, punctuating something with a sharp tap of her stylus as she glances up at him with a polite but meaningless smile.

“How is it not my concern?” he asks, walking over and trying to get a look at her screen. “You’re basically giving me a test here, you have to tell me how I did.”

“I think you know how you did.” She tilts her head to one side as she speaks, her bone-straight hair tipping with her. “But if it _was_ a test you had plenty of reason to want to fail.”

Lee scoffs, derisive. Claire ignores him, so Owen does too.

“Just give me the verdict.”

“Oh, now you’re on trial,” she remarks, squinting into the sun as she looks up at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a half-smile.

“Judge, jury… what was the last thing?” he asks, and when she rolls her eyes at him it’s a whole smile, for just a second.

“The bottom line is this is going to need to become a park attraction in the next sixth months. Two years if we can sell it to a sponsor,” she says. He opens his mouth to complain, but she’s on top of it. “The other option is letting half your staff go.”

“I got five people here,” he says.

“Round up,” she says without missing a beat.

As she begins her descent down the stairs, Owen follows her. “Come on,” he says, catching her by the elbow as the reach the bottom. “There’s no third option?”

It looks like she’s considering it for a second. But, then, of course: “Have you considering minimizing your pig expenditures?”

Funny, he thinks. “That’s not funny,” he says. She just shrugs, unapologetic.

“Let me know what you decide,” she says, turning to cross the field of mud.

He stands there watching her go until her car peels away on the loose gravel road.

Once she’s gone, Lee lets out a long whistle. “She’s a fucking piece of work,” he says. Nobody agrees with him, but nobody disagrees either, and a cloud of tension hangs over the paddock for the rest of the day.

* * *

He ends up picking the attraction option, because operating the Raptor paddock with two people for backup seems…. suicidal, frankly, and he’s not a total idiot.

But damn if marketing meetings don’t make him want to change his mind.

This is the third time this week he’s been pulled away from the depths of the jungle and crammed into the slick, dark boardroom at the command center. It’s the first time, though, that they’re being joined by the Masrani Global Board of Directors, who are in Los Angeles but speaking to them via video chat (powered by Mascom, as the blaring logos all over the screen will not let anyone forget).

It’s a lot of back and forth and he’s really not paying attention anymore, but sometimes tunes in when Claire’s speaking. He’s learned, at least, what she wrote in her report: that while the Raptors are making progress, they aren’t exactly _trained_. True enough from a technical standpoint, but it still stings on a personal achievement level.

The fact that the Raptors don’t do backflips when he snaps his fingers has proven very disappointing to the Board, and right now Claire’s pitching her back-up back-up idea.

“We could make it a feeding show. People pay good money for that.”

“Fuck’s sake, Claire,” one of the executives says from video feed. Owen doesn’t like the way he says her name – less mandated pleasantry, more stark condescension. “You have those already. Demonstrations, do-it-yourselfs, a fucking petting zoo where they eat out of your hand. It’s overdone. If you’re not careful the entire goddamn park is going to turn into a feeding show.”

It’s _weird_ , hearing someone dress Claire down and not look like he fears for his life afterwards. It’s only been about a week since he met her in person for the first time, but she’s always been the undisputed top of the park’s food chain. Owen’s about ready to tear the asshole executive a new one – but looking around the table, he can see he’s not alone. The marketing people, the guy from the lab, Claire’s underlings from Operations, even her glacial assistant. They’re all glowering at the telecom screen too.

But, to Claire’s credit, she’s totally unfazed. “Watching predators in their element is different than feeding leaves to herbivores,” she says. “Velociraptors are _iconic_ predators. It’d move bodies.”

“Velociraptors are old news,” another exec says.

“They did peak in popularity back in the nineties,” a marketing guy says. “You know they were big popular for a while after the original incident. But they’ve been out of the public eye long enough that a comeback’s possible.”

“You could pitch it as classic, like T-Rex,” a pretty blonde intern from Operations suggests from where she’s standing at the very back of the room. “Sell tickets as a package deal. All-Star Predators. Whatever.”

“That’s good,” Claire says, motioning with her hand for the intern to keep talking.

“You could… push the other original park species, too,” the intern continues. “Velociraptor’s the only one that’s not on display right now. Complete the set.”

Before Claire has time to comment, Old News Executive cuts the intern off. “You’re retreading old ground. We want _new_ ,” the exec says. It’s just about the stupidest thing Owen’s ever heard, and he can’t help but laugh. Eyes turn to him.

“Something to share with the class, Mr. Grady?” Asshole Executive asks.

“You’re running Jurassic World, not Tomorrowland,” he says. “It’s _all_ old news. It’s prehistoric.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the executives. For about ten seconds, Owen’s pretty damn sure he’s about to be fired. Then Claire’s phone starts ringing, puncturing the awkwardness – or at least transferring it to her and not him.

She’s partway through apologizing when the sentiment dies on her tongue. “It’s my sister,” she tells the Board, standing up to take the call. “We’re not close,” she adds by way of explanation. The phone rings once more before she realizes exactly what she said and continues. “She’d only call if it was an emergency. I’m going to—”

She ducks out of the room. Her assistant tries to follow her, but Claire shoos her back through the door.

The whole display is kind of pathetic, but it’s also – he’s not sure what the word is. Through the glass walls of the boardroom, he sees her take the call and disappear around the corner, a blur of red hair and clacking heels.

* * *

Claire answers her phone right before it goes to voicemail, while she’s still navigating her way through the labyrinth of hallways between the boardroom and her office.

“Karen?” she asks, and for a moment as only silence greets her from the other end of the line, she catalogues every possible family catastrophe that might’ve occurred from most to least likely.

“Hey, Claire,” Karen finally says, her voice sounding bright, if a little tinny through the park’s less than stellar cellular reception. The relative lack of distress in her sister’s tone causes her to pause momentarily before resuming her brisk pace back to her office. “Are you busy?”

“I was in a board meeting, but I’m not anymore,” Claire says. Passive aggression is Karen’s self-proclaimed number one pet peeve, so she’s sure she catches the implication.

“At this time of day?” Karen asks. “What time even is it there?”

“We’re just an hour behind you,” Claire says, finally reaching her office.

“Oh,” Karen says, followed by a long and dragging silence. Instead of sitting down at her desk, Claire crosses to the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of her office and leans her head against the cool glass. “So, how are you?”

“I’m fine, but—”

“You always say that,” Karen says. “I don’t know anything about your life.”

“I’m sorry?” Claire tentatively apologizes. It’s true that she doesn’t talk to her sister – or anyone in their family, really – much since she moved to Isla Nublar, but it’s been even longer since they’ve been really close by any stretch of the imagination. Not that their relationship is _bad_ , exactly, but the six year age gap never helped when they were kids and their adult lives took them in very different directions.

“God, sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all,” Karen says, sounding further away.

“Is that why you called?” she asks, unable to keep the edge of skepticism out of her voice.

“Is it so unbelievable that I just want to talk to my sister?” Karen asks – or tries to, anyway, since her voice cracks a few words in and she’s crying by the end of it. Claire lifts her head off the window, any words of comfort caught in the back of her throat. She’s never been great at this kind of thing.

“What’s wrong?” she finally manages to ask when Karen’s composed herself to sniffles.

“Scott and I are getting divorced,” Karen says, her voice still damp. She manages to keep herself composed while she hashes out the details of her long-failing relationship to Claire, though. And as she does, Claire can’t help but feel like her sister might be right – it sounds like she’s hearing about some stranger’s marital troubles, not Karen’s. The last time she’d visited them in Wisconsin, they’d seemed perfectly happy. The house in the suburbs, the job at the art museum, the two precocious kids – it had seemed like everything she knew that Karen had wanted. But that had been – god, years ago, now.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can bring herself to say at the end of it all, but she hopes some genuine sentiment gets through, because she _is_ sorry.

“No, I’m sorry for calling you in the middle of the work day,” she sighs. “I just needed to tell someone and I didn’t know…”

“It’s alright,” Claire says. “You can call any time.”

“Thanks,” Karen says, although she doesn’t sound totally convinced. “Look, the boys are going to be home from school soon, so I should go.”

“I should probably get back to that board meeting,” Claire admits, although after checking her watch she realizes it’s been longer than she thought.

“Hey, Claire?” Karen asks before she hangs up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“I won’t,” she says.

“Promise?”

Claire’s never been one for empty promises, but this is something she knows she can manage. After all – if she can make enough time in her schedule to deal with the ridiculous demands of the Board, she can definitely carve a few minutes out for her sister. “Promise.”


End file.
